Polemic.

Feeding from the latent,

And begging for curios

I've assumed thy shape.

You, the little Seraphim,

Progeny of the immaculate

Awaiting your escarpment.

I feel the itch of lesser beings

Their wing'd hands scratch

As I am pressed to you

Forever.

In this, behold hidden loss-

Of beauty, eternity-

Since gone from thy curve ,

That so deeply felt me,

In ardor of flame.

Oh tender thing,

Vicious I am not !

For spreading tender wings

Were thy plight at birth !